Book I, Chapter 3

Before I get on with my tale, I’d like to address one point in particular.  You’ve heard me mention elves, dwarves and orcs.  Some of you are no doubt saying to yourselves, “Here we go with another Tolkien rip-off.  Big fucking deal.”  Let me point out that, by his own admission, Tolkien was the mere translator of the Red Book of Westmarch, not its author.  What kind of a slack-ass takes credit for inventing history? In a Creation of infinite universes, Middle Earth is no more or less real than my Oerth is.  Besides which, even if Tolkien was lying and he did make up the whole thing, he cribbed most of his ideas from old Celtic and Norse mythology.  Hell, I could have done that.  I can assure you that those arrogant, hemp-wearing, lute-playing, rope-smoking, herbal-tea-drinking elves that you will meet in my story are quite real, as are those smelly, avaricious, beer-swilling, gas-passing gluttonous dwarves.  Middle Earth may just be a universe or two away from mine, but at least I’m farther away from it then that other pale Middle Earth knock-off described so profitably in those Sword of Shannara books.  If I could create my own universe to inhabit, it would be a lot more futuristic, maybe like Star Wars.  You think it’s fun living in the equivalent of 12th Century Europe?  Try walking down the streets of Redhawk dodging the chamber pots being dumped out onto the street because there’s no sanitation system.  Try living through a simple case of the flu because modern medicine has yet to be invented.  Try dating a girl with hairy legs who doesn’t bathe.  And let me tell you, it would a lot easier to slay a dragon with a lightsaber than the heavy metal I had to lug around.  You didn’t hear about any of that stuff in Tolkien, because he cleaned it all up.  Hobbit holes don’t exactly smell like freshly shorn rose petals, you know. They generally smell like outhouses.

So anyway, there I was, a young man still wet behind the ears, having arrived in Redhawk to seek my fortune.  Or I should say to seek a new fortune, as I had recently renounced all claims to my father’s wealth.  As the second son I would have been entitled to my own fleet, my own castle and men-at-arms, my own lands and flocks.   It would have been a good life, don’t get me wrong.  It just wouldn’t have been my life.  It was all right for Eldernon, my brother and heir to the throne, to live at my father’s beck and call, because he was supposed to be learning statecraft.  One day he would run the show and could toss out the window all of the “wisdom” our father had so diligently drummed into his thick skull.  But what was in it for me, exactly?  A lifetime of watching my brother hog all the glory, take credit for my accomplishments, and slowly whittle away what little self-respect our father allowed me to keep?  No thanks.  I had my bags packed the moment I was old enough to know the score.

I remember well my father’s expression when I told him I had renounced my titles and land.  He looked like a man who had just had his worst suspicions confirmed.

“Did you fall out of your tower window again?”  he asked me.

“No, father, I didn’t,” I said, striving to keep my knees from knocking together.  “I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Thought?” My father gave what passed on his face for a smile.  “Is that your hobby these days?  You think it’s sensible, do you, to throw away a lifetime of security to go scouring dungeons?”

“I’m a good fighter.  I can out-duel any man in your army.  I’m better than Eldernon, and I’m better than you.  There’s a need for good fighters out there.  There’s evil to be vanquished.  Kingdoms to be won.  I might even save a damsel or two.”

Olderon rose up out of his throne to face me.  He married late in life, and was in his autumn years by the time my brother and I grew to manhood, but even then he was a physically imposing man.  He was all about upper body strength, with legs that looked way too small to tote around such an overdeveloped torso, and he could, when the mood struck him, summon the physical presence of a mastiff ready to tear the hindquarters off an unlucky deer.  He gave me the full effect, as it were, and fixed his heavy brows into a battlement that overhung his steel-gray eyes.

“Now you listen to me, boy,” he said.  “Don’t tell me about vanquishing evil and winning kingdoms.  Who do you think civilized these islands?  When we first settlers landed on Hydra Rock, there was nothing here but a flourishing Stone Age civilization with an advanced knowledge of astronomy and an unfortunate penchant for human sacrifice.  Do you think it was easy destroying their culture and usurping their land?  Why, if it weren’t for our rock-solid belief in Manifest Destiny, you and I would still be toiling away in the copper mines of the Great Empire.  I was stacking bodies like cordwood when you were still flinging shit on the walls of your nursery.  I built this Lordship with my own two hands, devoted my life to it, and for what?  To see my own son spit in my face? I’d sooner see you fed to the sea drakes!”

We stood nose to nose.  I held my ground.  Don’t misunderstand me, I was still terrified of him— his idea of strong parenting was to lock us in a maze with a hired Minotaur and force us to fight our way out.  I told myself that if I could look him in the eye while telling him that I didn’t want his charity, I would be able to face anything.  Orcs, dragons, the undead, evil demi-gods bent on world domination— all would pale before the unholy visage of my father’s wrath.

“Who said I was spitting in anybody’s face?”  I said.  “I want what you wanted— to forge my own destiny!”

“I’m your father— if there’s any destiny to be forged, I’ll be the one to do it!”

“The only thing you’ll forge are shackles if you expect to keep me here!”

“I’ll bind you with them myself!”

“You and what army?”

That did it.  Olderon reached for his broadsword, found the haft, and swung it overhead in a broad arc aimed straight at my skull.  It was an empty gesture; he had the strength to stop the blade before it cleaved me in two.  Just the same, I grabbed a buckler from the wall and brought it up swiftly to absorb the blow.  Better safe than dead.

We glared at each other for a charged moment.  Fortunately, I had come prepared for this impasse.  I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

“There’s only one way to settle this,” I said.

Father raised a furry brow.  “You don’t mean…”

“Crush the Kobold,” I said.  “One game.  If you win, I stay and polish your brass.  If I win, I go with your blessing.”

Father considered.  He eyed me with suspicion.  “No strings?”

“Would I ever take advantage of you?”

This broke his mood.  He lowered his sword, chuckled, and patted me on the shoulder.

“You are an arrow from your old man’s quiver, my boy,” he said.  “All right, you’ll have your game.  Three days hence, when the cock crows.  I’ll have my steward make all the arrangements.  But I’ll hear no pleas for a rematch when we fish you out of the moat.”

“I’ll have the alligators removed.”

I had appealed to his vanity and won.  Now all I had to do was win the match. Lucky for me that I had the proverbial ace up my sleeve.